


And I'll Be the One Who's by Your Side

by glassessay



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - No Homophobia, Anal Sex, Blow Jobs, Hand Jobs, M/M, Married People in Love, Theon is the Big Spoon, canon is for suckers, i just do whatever i want with speech patterns and no one can stop me, the working title of this was "wedding planning and melancholy" so that should give you a good idea, well they're only married for 3K of it but they're definitely in love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-26
Updated: 2018-10-26
Packaged: 2019-08-08 02:23:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 16,592
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16420577
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/glassessay/pseuds/glassessay
Summary: Robb takes a deep breath, steadying himself. “I love you, Theon. And I want to marry you.”Theon’s heart beats, loud. He should say no.Regardless of matters of legality, the fact still remains that Winterfell needs an heir, that Robb needs an heir—that Robb needs someone strong beside him, someone who hadn’t spent all their previous time in his home as a failed war deterrent or a traitor. He needs someone who didn’t turn cloak and take Winterfell, someone who wasn’t stupid and weak enough to get captured, someone who doesn’t wake screaming out of a nightmare more nights than not. Robb needs someone who matches him, who is honorable and selfless and solid and everything Theon isn’t.If Theon is anything, it isn’t selfless.After the war—after both wars—they get married.





	And I'll Be the One Who's by Your Side

**Author's Note:**

> This started as me just wondering how two nobles of the same gender would get married in Westeros and then it uh, fucking got away from me!
> 
> The “canon is for suckers” tag is in big effect here; I basically just pulled the bits I liked from the book, the show, and like, historical Viking ceremonies and ignored everything I didn’t like so. You know. Robb’s still alive, homophobia’s dead.

King’s Landing is different than Theon expected.

Neither of the places he’s lived have ever spoke fondly of the capital, but he’d never put much faith in either opinion. Or, perhaps, he’d taken the descriptions of a hot, luxurious city with nothing but gambling, whoring, and drinking as much more enticing than had been meant. He’d half imagined coming down to wile away a year or so before returning to his rightful home.

Instead, he looks down on a city rebuilding from war. Instead, he is terrified of leaving.

Yara has been queen for barely a week, and one of her first acts had been negotiating the end of Theon’s hostage status. The whole arrangement hadn’t even worked, in the end, and now that the Iron Islands were sovereign allies of the Seven Kingdoms, no one had even protested. It had been beyond easy, barely taking five minutes of discussion, but Theon was still quietly reeling. For the first time, there is no sword hanging over him. For the first time, he is a rightful prince.

For the first time, he has to decide where he wants to go.

What he _should_ do is go back to Pyke with Yara. He should stand by her and try to advise her, make pleasantries when she asks him to and trouble when she can’t ask. He could back her claim to the throne, make a diplomatic marriage if necessary, and finally get to know the culture he came from. He could have a relationship with his sister that went beyond blood ties and maybe even settled into something like friendship.

He wants many of those things, and one thing he really shouldn’t.

Someone calls his name, softly, and Theon looks up from where he’s leaning against a wall, staring down at the city. It’s Robb, glowing in the sunlight. He’s is struck, suddenly, by the memory of another sunlit Robb, years younger, and his first realization that the fumbling at each other they’d been doing had turned into actual feelings. Theon folds his hands together and searches for something to say.

“How was the meeting?” There had been another one of the meetings that had been common since the wars had ended and they’d all gathered in King’s Landing for the coronation. It was the small council, usually, plus assorted important people like Robb or Yara. Theon probably could’ve justified his own attendance, but he had been feeling antsy and unsettled after a night of little sleep and hadn’t wanted to sit and listen to seemingly endless debate. He was sure they were better than the small council meetings headed by Tywin Lannister, but a man could still only take so much.

“It was eventful enough,” Robb says, moving over the balcony wall next to Theon. “We missed you.” Theon shifts his shoulders in a half-shrug. “Yara and Tyrion managed to argue for five minutes about the merits of various brothels in Westeros. It was a little stunning, actually.” Theon laughs, shaking his head.

“Only my sister. And Lord Tyrion, I suppose.” He grins at Robb. He almost regrets not attending for having to miss that. “Pity he’s already the Hand here—he and Yara could take over the whole of Westeros. Or somehow manage to sink the Iron Islands.”

“Oh yes, what a shame.” Robb moves, leaning his back against the wall and turning to face Theon. “You’d have us mere lords quaking in our boots.” He pauses, and Theon gets the impression he’s weighing his next words. Not that Theon understands, when the next thing he says is “Too bad your sister already has a Hand.”

What?

“You’ll have to point them out to me next we see them,” Theon says carefully. “Seeing as I’ve no idea what you’re talking about.”

“I thought…” Robb starts, eyes flicking over Theon’s face. “I thought you were going to be her Hand.” Theon snorts.

“Not bloody likely. I’d make a terrible Hand.” Theon waves off Robb’s noise of protest. “An advisor? A representative? A husband to some unlucky politically-important girl? All within my capabilities, or at least enough that nothing terrible would happen. But a Hand?” Theon shakes his head, bemused. “She’d do better to throw me off a bridge and blame it on someone she wants to fight.”

Robb looks, oddly enough, upset at what Theon considered a fairly generous assessment of his abilities. You’d think he be the first to agree, having seen the mess Theon nearly made of Robb’s own brief reign as King in the North. Theon finds it a little flattering, honestly, that Robb still thought so well of him after all the shit he’d let happen.

“Is that what you want?” Robb asks after a long pause. _I don’t know_ , Theon thinks, and starts fiddling with his sleeve.

“It’s typical for a younger brother, and… I haven’t really lived on the Islands for over a decade, now. I’d have no clue how to best serve them.” He drops his hands to dangle over the edge of the wall. “I think I’d hate being the Hand, honestly. Better to just be there, without the title.”

“You’d be wasted.” Robb says after a long moment. Theon shrugs.

“I’d be a prince.” He moves, sitting down on the bench just to the side. “Or, I am one, anyway. No use pretending otherwise. Besides…” He bites his lip. _Might as well just say it_ , he thinks, and takes a deep breath. “Besides, it’s not as if I have anywhere else to go.”

“What if you did?” Robb asks, and Theon watches the movement of his throat as he swallows. “What if you had… someplace else to go?”

“I—” Theon starts, hesitantly, but Robb interrupts him, turning back to stare out over the balcony.

“I know—I know you’re not required to stay at Winterfell anymore, and I know you’d probably rather be anywhere else now that you’re able, and, and I know you’ve always wanted to go back to Pyke and take your rightful place, which even if you wouldn’t be the lord anymore you’d still be a bloody _prince_ , but.” Robb looks at him, face tight, and continues. “But you’re my best friend, Theon. And I’d miss you.”

“Robb, I—”

“No, sorry, that’s not it.” Robb rubs his hands over his face, groaning in frustration. “I told myself I’d be totally honest for this conversation and I haven’t been, and you deserve better than me trying to pretend that I don’t— That I don’t feel…” Robb huffs, clearly irritated. “Do you remember when Bran was attacked by those wildlings?”

“Yes,” Theon says. It feels like a lifetime ago, but he can perfectly remember the anxiety, the adrenaline, and the look on Robb’s face when they’d found his younger brother surrounded.

“I never thanked you, for saving his life.” Robbs says ruefully. “And I feel utterly stupid every time I think about it… but you saved my brother’s life and I couldn’t stop being worried about both of you long enough to thank you. And I should have!” He throws his hands up. “It would have finally been proof, to everyone who told me not to get attached like you were only around to stab me in the back or die. Proof that my life was undeniably better because of you.” Robb deflates then, the anger going out of him. He smiles sadly at Theon and shakes his head.

“I spent so long just taking you for granted, and I had no idea what I’d miss until you didn’t come back.” Robb’s eyes are bright when they lock on Theon’s. “I’m not going to make that mistake again.”

“Robb, I—” Theon chokes on his words, eyes swimming.

“I know we said that everything we did together was just being friends or fooling around, but I—” Robb takes a step toward him. “My father is dead, my mother is dead, my little brother… The world is _different_ , now, or at least I’m different and I’m done lying to myself. I’m done lying to you.” He takes a deep breath, steadying himself. “I love you, Theon. And I want to marry you.”

Theon’s heart beats, loud, as Robb sits beside him on the bench.

“That’s what the meeting was about, actually.” Robb is warm beside him and Theon can’t think. “Jon’s decided that there are more backwards marriage practices than men marrying men and women marrying women. He’s announcing it tomorrow, but he wanted to give us all a chance to get our story straight. Honestly, I think he just wanted to make sure the High Septon wouldn’t go into shock in front of everyone.” He huffs a laugh and continues. “He’s actually got some pretty persuasive points, what with the number of people who died during the wars, not that I needed persuading, of course, I’m as happy about it as anyone else and—Gods I’m rambling but Theon, _please say something_.” Oh. Theon hadn’t noticed how nervous Robb was, hadn’t noticed that he’d turned toward him, hadn’t noticed the imploring, hopeful, anxious look on Robb’s face.

He should say no.

Regardless of matters of legality, the fact still remains that Winterfell needs an heir, that Robb needs an heir—that Robb needs someone strong beside him, someone who hadn’t spent all their previous time in his home as a failed war deterrent or a traitor. He needs someone who didn’t turn cloak and take Winterfell, someone who wasn’t stupid and weak enough to get captured, someone who doesn’t wake screaming out of a nightmare more nights than not. Robb needs someone who matches him, who is honorable and selfless and solid and everything Theon isn’t.

If Theon is anything, it isn’t selfless.

“Yes,” he says, and Robb is smiling bright enough to shame the sun. “Yes,” he says, kissing Robb as well as he can when the both of them are grinning too much for finesse. “Yes,” he says, crying and laughing and trembling from it all.

*

“Huh,” Yara says, later that evening in their rooms when he tries to explain the situation and, bizarrely enough, ask her permission. “I guess something good came out of father’s rebellion after all.”

“Something,” Theon says. Yara cranes her head from the couch she’s sprawled across to look at him.

“It is good, right? You do actually want to marry the wolf?”

He bites his lip. “It’s a bad idea, isn’t it?”

“Kind of,” Yara gestures for him to sit across from her, so he does. “It’s also kind of a good one.” He shoots her a look, surprised. “It’d be a good first showing to legitimize the new ruling and be helpful support for when I make the same announcement. It’d formally tie our family to both the Warden of the North and the Iron Throne, plus whatever other houses his siblings marry themselves into. All the better if everyone involved actually likes each other.” She tilts her head to the side and takes a drink. “And I’m sure you’ll be a lot less annoying than if I took you back to Pyke without him.”

 Theon rolls his eyes. “How considerate.” He pauses, bites his cheek, and sighs. “It still seems like he’s making a bad choice.”

“First of all,” Yara puts her drink down and leans forward onto her knees, like she’s about to explain exactly why he’s wrong. “I don’t really care if Robb bloody Stark makes choices that are bad for him, so long as it doesn’t affect me. Second, we put far too much effort into reclaiming our home for you to suddenly decide that allying with a Greyjoy prince—even if that prince is you—is a bad idea. And thirdly, well, if you’re going to be miserable about everything then you might as well do it with someone you love.” She sits back then, watching Theon fidget. “That is assuming you _do_ love him, which so far you’ve been very careful not to say.”

It’s not even a question, when Theon thinks about it. Had never been a question, really—was it a good idea, would Robb regret asking him, did he really deserve something this good after ever thing he’d done—those were the questions. He knew the truth of how he felt for Robb, had know it since he was sixteen and stupid and nearly friendless. Maybe he was still stupid, if he was only now realizing that it might not be a weakness to admit it.

 “I do,” he says. “I love him.”

“Well then let him worry about the consequences of his actions, and you go and take what you want for once.” She rolls her eyes at him and shakes her head. “If he’s as great as you seem to think he is then he’s probably thought about all this already. And apparently decided it’s not as important as you, for some bloody reason.”

“Well I’m a Greyjoy prince now, aren’t I?” He smirks, feeling only a little overwhelmed.

“Oh, shut up. That’s more talk then I plan to do all year, and since it looks like I’m going to have to do even more at your wedding, I think we’re done.” She sits back and takes a long drink. Theon smiles and reaches for a glass.

*

He really should have expected that Jon would try and talk to him.

“I’m afraid I won’t be able to make it to your wedding,” Jon says when Theon lets him into his and Yara’s rooms. Technically, of course, they’re Jon’s rooms, but Yara’s new status as a visiting monarch meant the two of them had somehow ended up in a suite more ornate than even he thinks is reasonable.

“Oh, were you invited?” Theon says, because he’s nothing if not an asshole. For all his clothes are slightly nicer and his presence more commanding, Jon makes the exact same face as when they were teenagers and Theon would make fun of his hair.

“I hope you’re not asking me to tell Robb,” Theon continues when Jon doesn’t respond.

“No,” Jon reaches inside his cloak—gods but he must be sweating in that, outfit cohesion be damned—and pulls out a scroll of parchment. “But I wanted to give you your wedding present in person.” Theon blinks.

He takes the scroll from Jon and looks at it. It’s heavy, high quality paper, tied together with an equally nice ribbon, so Theon’s reasonably sure it isn’t an arrest warrant. They wouldn’t waste the materials on something like that, not unless Jon has suddenly developed a sense of humor. Theon looks up at the other man, who nods, and unrolls the scroll.

It’s not a warrant, but it is a royal decree—a missive of approval for his and Robb’s union, the kind of thing that usually only written for important marriages, like unions between countries or with members of the monarch’s family. Now that he thinks about it, Theon supposes theirs would conceivably fall under both. At the bottom Jon’s signed and dated it—for before Robb had even asked him to get married.

“I can’t say I didn’t see it coming,” Jon says, and Theon looks up at him. “Actually, it was kind of the whole reason I did this.” Theon blinks at him, taken aback.

“He deserves to be happy,” Jon says, staring at him. His voice is quiet and his words are vague, but it’s obvious Theon is meant to understand. It’s the kind of knowing command Theon would never have expected from Jon, but he’s been wrong about a lot of things.

“Yes,” Theon says. “He does.” Jon nods, leaning back.

“I’m glad we agree.” Jon turns to leave them room, but Theon blurts out a question before he can close the door.

“Wait, are you trying to give me _my marriage_ as a wedding present?”

They leave for Winterfell within the week. Jon hugs his siblings, nods at Theon, and waves them off. The parchment, carefully wrapped, is in Theon’s personal saddlebags.

*

“We could just not do the cloaking,” Robb says, the three of them riding side by side along the Kingsroad, and Sansa shakes her head.

“No, you really should. People are already going to be questioning the legitimacy of the marriage, never mind that Jon already dealt with that. There’s a reason we’re waiting until we get home to do this, and it’s not just for the snow.” She looks over to Theon then, and he nods at her. She’s right, even if it does mean more planning. “If you’re going to finally make him a Stark then you really ought to make it obvious.” She says to Robb again, and Theon’s neck warms. He’s sure it’s pink, but at least the rest of the caravan are far enough behind them that no one else should notice.

Robb is smiling softly at him, and Theon can’t help but smile back. He’d never imagined getting married, let alone ending the ceremony wearing another house’s sigil, but then there was a long while where he didn’t expect to live long enough for any imagining to be worth it. This is an infinitely better future.

“You’re right,” he says, nodding at Sansa. “And anyway, we all know you’re the one who’s going to be sewing it.” Sansa makes a face at him, and for a moment he’s just grateful that they can finally joke together.

“Well, I have no problem if you have no problem, but what about…” Robb trails off, looking at him intently. Theon shrugs.

“Better not,” he says, and then, because he knows he’s going to have to be the one who says it, continues. “Probably wouldn’t go over well for the Lord of Winterfell to go full Greyjoy, even for just a night. Wouldn’t want anyone to get ideas and start calling you my salt wife,” Theon smirks at Robb, who rolls his eyes, smiling.

“Technically, _my prince_ , I’m the one marrying up, so really _I should_ end the night in your colors.” Theon flushes, mind filling unconsciously with images of a naked Robb sprawled out over a bed of black and gold. Based on the smirk he’s sporting, Robb knows exactly what Theon’s thinking about.

“Yes, yes, you two are adorable,” Sansa says, pulling their attention back to her amused face. “If I weren’t utterly delighted I’d smack you both.” Theon ducks his head, smiling. Robb’s grinning at the both of them when he looks up.

“Still, Theon has a point,” Sansa continues as she tilts her head. “It wouldn’t really do to put Robb in a Greyjoy cloak when we’re trying to avoid anyone claiming this is some kind of underhanded takeover.” Theon bites his cheek as Robb scowls at the road ahead of them. She’s right, and mostly Theon wouldn’t care about it, except… Except he’s actually started to _like_ being a Greyjoy since Yara became Queen. His name is the only reason people aren’t saying their marriage is beneath Robb, on top of all the other complaints, and a not-insignificant part of him wants the world to know Robb’s _his_ as much as he’s Robb’s. “But the difference in rank could give us some leeway, if… Theon, how _do_ people get married in the Iron Islands? I can’t seem to remember.”

“Uh,” he says, mind blank. “I’ve never actually seen it?” No one in his family had gotten married when he was younger, and it’s not as if he’d been invited to any weddings while he was staying at Winterfell.

“Really?” Theon shrugs at the look of surprise on the siblings’ faces.

“I think I remember something about exchanging ancestral swords?” He offers, trying to get them to stop looking at him like that. “But my father never gave me anything like that, and even if we had one it should be Yara’s to use some day.”

“Ice doesn’t really exist anymore,” Robb frowns a little, brows furrowing.

“No…” Sansa’s clearly thinking something through, so Theon looks over at Robb until the other man notices. His frown clears, and he smiles at Theon, small and heartwarming. Gods, but Theon loves him.

“That might actually be better,” Sansa starts, and they both turn to look at her. “Robb gives you his cloak, or the protection of his house, and Theon gives _you_ his sword as a way of enabling that protection. It’s kind of sweet, actually.” She smiles into the trees.

“You could write Yara and see if she can find anything applicable,” Robb says. “Or have something made once we’re back at Winterfell.” Theon nods.

“Does that sound okay, Theon?” Sansa asks, and Theon blinks. Two days ago, they woke up to the clear, chilled air that permeates the entire north. When he breathes, it feels like coming home.

“I—Yes, that’s perfect.” If his voice breaks a little, caught in his throat, then the other two are kind enough to pretend it didn’t.

*

He writes to Yara once they reach Winterfell, then spends an awful lot of time trying to get used to having new rooms before giving it up. He’ll be moving again soon enough, and it’s not as if he can get properly lost anywhere but the crypts.

Mostly, he wanders around trying not to get in anyone’s way. There’s only so long he can practice shooting, and as he isn’t technically part of the household yet he can’t be delegated any important tasks. He tries to be grateful for the leisure time, but he wishes he had something to distract him from the fact that half the time he turns the corner he expects to see Bolton soldiers behind it. It gets better, as he spends more time as himself and the repairs continue, but he’s still doing it by the time Sansa catches him flinching at a shadow.

“Oh,” she says, and takes his arm. “You too?” She leads him to her rooms, where she pours them both a drink and they sit, in silence, for a long time.

“Sometimes,” he says, “I feel as if I only have to wake up, and I’ll be back. With him.”

“Sometimes I feel like I’ll turn around and father will be alive. And none of this will have ever happened.” Sansa’s voice is soft and clear. Theon closes his eyes. “I suppose that wouldn’t have gone very well for you, though.”

His mouth twitches, unbidden. _No_ , he thinks, _I’d have died by your lord father’s hand_. Except—No. He’d have died by his own father’s doing.

“Was it much different, being here as his prisoner and our hostage?” Theon looks at her, startled. He searches her face for a meaning beyond the obvious, then sighs.

“I think I knew, the whole time, that I was as good as dead to my father the second he… gave me away.” He traces the edge of his cup, staring unseeing at it. “There were war ships, when I went to Pyke. Enough that he’d had to have ordered them built before Robb had even called the banners.” He shakes his head, laughing hollowly. “Some deterrent I was. Guess your father was too good a man to realize that not everyone loves their children.”

Gods, he sounds bitter.

But doesn’t he have a right to be? Wouldn’t anyone, were they him? A ward-who-was-not, kept in the pretense of civility when in truth he was more likely to die than anyone in coarser clothes or colder rooms. He didn’t ask to be carted off as some war prize, didn’t ask to spend eight years surrounded by barely disguised hate because he dared to be born to different blood.

He is not a good man—has not been wholly good for a while now and was not even a man until long after that. He is no shining knight or fairytale prince. Any stories or songs written about him, no matter how good his deeds from this point on, will always be tinged with the cloudy darkness of _but_. He does not have honor and justice sewn into his bones like Robb or Sansa or Eddard bloody Stark—only regret and remorse and guilt. He has never been the kind of hero the North adores and can no longer pretend to be the kind the Iron Islands demand.

But for all the mess he has turned out to be, he was only a child then. _A child should not be a bartering piece_ , he thinks.

The thought sobers him.

Because they _are_ , all of them—children, bartering pieces, pawns in this endless, haunting game of playing nice and breaking bread and carrying your enemies’ blood around so that if they stab you in the back at least they’ll be a kinslayer too.

Maybe others were greeted more warmly, given dowries instead of sentences, but Theon was not the first nor the last son or daughter shuttled around the map as a hostage. He was just the only one where people were blunt enough to say it to his face.

Maybe that was a sort of kindness. Maybe Ned Stark’s kindness was seeing a child whose father did not love him and finding a way to make him useful. Maybe Balon Greyjoy’s kindness was knowing he could not love Theon and giving him away to someone who might have been able.

It was not a kindness to his mother. He is not sure anything would have been.

“You know, I don’t actually remember a Winterfell without you.” Sansa’s voice pulls him out of his reverie, though he takes a few seconds to understand what she is saying.

“Neither do I,” he says pointedly. “You were already born by the time I got here.”

Sansa _hmms_ quietly. It is kind of her, to sit here and pour him drinks and talk around their demons until he feels he can move without his hands shaking. He thinks about making a promise to himself to do similar for her when she needs it, but he’s not sure he could keep it. He hopes he can. He wants to be the kind of person that can.

*

Robb knocks on his door later that night. Theon’s up, burning a candle to read by. He’s not really paying attention to whatever book he’d pulled from the maester’s library—some collection of old northern folklore he remembers seeing with Lady Stark once or twice—but he’d been expecting Robb to show up sooner or later. He usually drops by to sit and talk when they haven’t seen each other all day. Or even if they have.

“I spoke your sister today,” Theon says when Robb’s shut the door.

“Oh? Which one?”

“I received a drink, not a death threat.”

Robb _hmms_ , an absent-minded sound. He is distracted, clearly, but if he wishes to share then he will, no matter what Theon does. He sits back and waits.

“I received a letter from Lord Flint today,” Robb announces after a long moment.

“A remarkable occurrence, to be sure, if the man has finally learned his letters.” Robb shoots him an exasperated look, and Theon smiles as falsely innocent as he can.

“He and his house will be attending our wedding.” Robb says, not nearly as positive about it as he should sound in public.

“A pity.” Theon quirks an eyebrow, then gives an exaggerated sigh. “I had hoped to enjoy my wedding feast, but I suppose now there is no chance.”

“He _also_ wrote that he would be sure to bring his daughter in case I _came to my senses and put an end to this farce of a betrothal to a known traitor of the north_.” Ah. Now they are at the heart of the matter.

“Well,” Theon says after a pause. “At least it’s a daughter and not that widowed sister of his.”

“He is _insulting_ me, and you!” Robb is a storm of directed fury. Greater men than Theon have quailed under that tone, including Lord Flint. “As if I were some idiot boy instead of the man who beat the Lannisters and secured the North!”

Theon takes a deep, careful breath. “And is he the first?” he asks, catching Robb’s eye. “And he’ll be the last?”

“He is my bannerman! And my father’s before me, and his father’s before him—my bannermen are meant to show me _respect_.”

“But they _don’t_ respect this, Robb.” Theon explains, hands spread wide. “They respect your name and your strategy, and they’ll come to respect your peace-time administration abilities, but they _don’t_ respect _this_ choice. And I—I can’t say I blame them.”

“What—”

“I took your _home_ , Robb. How ever much guilt I felt, how ever many regrets I have, that cannot change that I did it. And we cannot expect them to consider our union as apt punishment!”

“You _were_ punished! You were _tortured_ —”

“ _I_ know that, Robb. And I can’t stop them from pretending to forget.” He sighs, resting his elbows on his knees and looking up at Robb. “They will never respect me. _I_ don’t respect me—I think the smartest thing you could do is break this off and marry someone your banners and your household can respect—”

“Theon—”

“ _Let me finish_. I think that because I want you to be _happy_ , Robb, and because I think you deserve the easiest life possible, after everything. I am willing to do anything in my power to make that happen for you, and because I respect you and I trust you when you say the best thing I can do is stand by your side, I will do that. I can put up with a lack of respect if it means I get to love you until the end of my days.”

Robb crouches in front of him, and Theon tips their foreheads together.

“Do not go to war for me,” he says, voice low. “I’m not saying you have to marry the Flint girl, I’d really rather you didn’t, obviously.” Robb smiles slightly at the quip. “But you do have to try and understand the men you are meant to lead. And to them it looks like you are rewarding me with your name for turning cloak and taking Winterfell—"

“And would I have not done the same?” Robb cries, standing in a rush of movement. “Had my father declared war on yours, had I the chance to take Pyke for him, _wouldn’t I have done the same_?”

“Your father would not have declared war.” Theon says cautiously.

“A consequence of birth.” Robb shakes his head. “Had I been successful the lords of the North would have cheered my name.” He throws his hands up. “Had Loras Tyrell stolen Storm’s End out from under Stannis and Renly’s bickering noses, none of them would have even cared.”

“But he didn’t,” Theon states. “And you didn’t.”

“But I _would have_.”

“And the ironborn would have gutted me if I so much as smiled at you after, let alone taken you as a husband.” Robb heaves a great sigh at that, looking as if he is stifling some choice words for the ironborn, though Theon cannot exactly blame him. He sighs. “It is different when it is yours, Robb. You know that.”

“ _You_ are mine,” Robb snaps, then gestures at the walls around them. “ _Winterfell_ is _mine_. If I forgive you what right do they have to say otherwise?”

“I do not claim to understand the minds of Northmen,” Theon says. He smiles wryly, remembering an old joke. “Only that they are to small for me to comprehend.”

Robb huffs at that but does not laugh. He walks back over to Theon, reaching down to toy with the collar of his shirt. “Why is it different,” Robb says, not so much a question as a thought given sound.

_Because I should have known better_ , Theon thinks. _Because I swore my sword to you and stabbed you in the back_. _Because I love you, and I forgot_.

“Because it happened,” he says instead.

Robb moves his head to Theon’s cheek, smoothing his thumb over the too-sharp edge of his cheekbone. Theon closes his eyes, the warmth of Robb’s hand and the soft quiet of the room lulling him to calm.

Theon regrets, of course. He regrets nearly everything that has defined him to the world. Leaving for Pyke, believing his father to be reasonable, not turning his ship around the second he laid eyes on the ironborn fleet. Betraying the King in the North, taking Winterfell, and murdering those farmer’s boys, most of all. Trusting Ramsay Snow, like the idiot man-child he was.

He does not regret backing Yara’s claim, nor giving up his own. He cannot bring himself to regret saying yes to Robb.

Not when it has given him this: warmth on his cheek and love standing in front of him, a home and a husband and a hope to call his own. A chance to make amends for what he has done, to better Winterfell so no lasting mark of his ruin remains. It is a task he will never finish, but he finds that does not so much scare him as it makes him anxious to begin.

Robb shifts, then, pushing him gently up the bed to lean on the wall, lowering himself in the space between Theon’s knees until the can rest, his chest to Robb’s back, his arms around Robb’s middle. Theon hooks his chin over Robb’s shoulder, leaning their heads together gently. He breathes, deeply, in and out.

“I missed you today,” Robb says, his chest expanding and contracting in Theon’s hold.

“You seem to have caught me well enough,” Theon hums, grinning wickedly at Robb’s bark of laughter. “Or perhaps the other way ‘round.” Robb snatches his hands, fingers loosely encircling Theon’s wrists as if to show who, exactly, is catching whom. Theon bites at his neck for that, all pretense and no pressure. Robb relinquishes one wrist to pinch at Theon’s knee, hand a warm weight when he lets it rest there afterward.

“I always knew it was a lot of work,” Robb says, voice low. “And I am happy to be doing it, happy that after everything there is still a Lord Stark of Winterfell.” He pauses, hesitating, and Theon presses closes lips to his shoulder. “Only sometimes it feels like no one can choose a doublet without asking my opinion.”

Theon smiles into his shoulder and says nothing.

“It’s childish, I know,” Robb sighs. “Just, somedays I want to lock my door at sunrise and keep you in bed until sundown.”

“Odd choice for a child, unless you wish to tell me bedtime stories until I fall asleep from boredom.”

Robb swats at his knee, and Theon buries his grin in Robb’s neck. “You know what I meant.”

“Ah, so tell me bedtime stories until my mouth and cock and arse are at your disposal.” Robb’s neck flushes red and Theon presses a wet, toothy smile of a kiss to the warm skin. “Would I still fall asleep from boredom, I wonder?”

“You speak as if I have not been keeping you entertained,” Robb says, turning to face him and shifting so one of his thighs rests between Theon’s. “Do you find me remiss in my duties as a host, _your grace_?”

“It’s not you I find lacking,” Theon shifts so that Robb is more or less in his lap, the man himself grinning down at him. “Only your storytelling abilities.”

“Perhaps I should practice,” Robb says, and kisses him.

The kiss is soft and languid, and in the dark candlelight of Theon’s room, it feels like it goes on forever. One of Robb’s hands lifts to cup the side of Theon’s face, thumb brushing up and down his cheek. The warmth of it at the meeting of his jaw and neck matches the heat of Robb’s back when Theon slips his hands beneath his shirt and flattens them around his spine.

Theon hands slide up and around, Robb’s shirt bunching and falling around his wrists. He used to avoid this—even after being assured that Robb wanted to touch him, wanted Theon to touch him back—because there was nothing more damning to the state of his hands than skin to skin contact. Then Robb had spent one memorable evening sucking at each of Theon’s fingers and licking the webbing and the unnatural gaps between and, well. It hadn’t fixed the issue, but it had gone a long way toward.

He lets his teeth scrape gently against Robb’s tongue and feels the responding groan vibrate where their chests are pressed together.

Robb leans back then, pressing a kiss to Theon’s face, and reaches down to unlace Theon’s breeches. Theon stifles a groan at the first touch of skin on his cock and sucks in a breath.

“Oil’s in the second drawer from the top,” he says, and Robb huffs a laugh.

“As if I don’t already know.” Robb twits his torso to reach the appropriate drawer, and Theon takes the opportunity to undo Robb’s laces.

“Only trying to help, my lord,” Theon smirks as Robb twists back around, vial acquired. “I’d forgotten that a _proper_ lord already knows the whereabouts of all his guest’s sexual supplies. Must have missed that particular lesson—” He cuts off with a groan when Robb wraps a slick hand around him and squeezes.

“Only yours are of a particular interest,” Robb says, pulling out his own cock and shifting to press them together. “Now are you just going to sit there or are you going to _lend a hand_?”

“Well if you really need the help,” Theon slicks up his right hand and sets the vial in a place where it won’t fall over. He joins Robb in pressing their lengths together and pushes one long stroke down. Robb’s hips jerk up reflexively, and Theon muffles his quiet curse with a kiss.

Their hands are warm and slick, and Robb is gloriously hard against him. It’s good, so good, and it only gets better when he leans up to kiss Robb’s neck and is rewarded with an open moan and a quiet litany of _Theon Theon Theon_. It sends a thrill through him, the way Robb’s voice drags over the vowels, the knowledge that only he gets to hear it, and the fact that it’s his name. That the both of them are here, right now, together.

Robb bites at Theon’s lip, pulling a long, drawn-out whine from him. He licks at Robb’s mouth once before shifting just low enough to mouth at his jaw. Robb gasps, breathy and beautiful, and threads his free hand through Theon’s hair. Their joined hands are a source of maddening friction, stroking and squeezing as they both push and pull.

Theon bites at the crease of Robb’s neck, just enough to sting but not enough to leave a mark, and Robb comes with a long, bitten off groan. Combined with the look of Robb’s eyes once he comes back to himself, lidded with only a thin ring of blue left visible, it pushes Theon over the edge. When he comes, a blissful warm feeling washing over his mind, he reaches his left hand out to Robb’s face and pulls him in for a messy kiss.

Eventually, Robb shifts until his back is up against the wall next to him, legs still on top of Theon’s. Theon reaches for his hand, wrapping both of his hands around it and turns his head to look at him.

Robb smiles at him, lopsided and love-worn, and Theon’s heart skips.

“I would not actually neglect my duties,” he says, almost nervous.

Theon blinks, remembering what they had been talking about. “I wouldn’t expect you to.”

“I—I want to be a good husband, and a good lord, and part of being a good husband to you _is being_ a good lord and—”

“Are you trying to convince me of your responsibility?” Theon asks, dumbfounded. “Me, who has probably spent more days doing nothing than all the Starks combined?”

Robb flushes, red and sheepish and too damn good-hearted for this world. “I want to be the kind of lord people are proud of,” he mumbles, just barely loud enough for Theon to hear. “The kind of man you are proud of.”

“I have never not been,” Theon says, eyes wide and feeling slightly split open. He is overwhelmed, suddenly, by the shocking depth of Robb’s regard for him—despite and because of everything—and he marvels, for a moment, at the miracle lying next to him.

“And if I ever—” Robb starts, looking at their hands instead of Theon’s face. “ _Bore_ you, or otherwise, in my more husbandly duties—”

“You won’t,” Theon blurts, bewildered. “I don’t think you could, and if you did, well, and if _I_ do then you should feel free…” He coughs, clearing his throat. There is a lot being said here that he never even imagined, and he searches for a way to steer the conversation in a different direction. “We’re quite active in that regard, anyway. It’s a good thing you can’t get me pregnant.”

Robb laughs, rubbing his free hand across his face. “We’re to be married in a month, I don’t think anyone cares _that_ much about the timing.” Theon huffs, picking at the bedding beneath them.

“It’d probably make them happier, anyway.” He mutters.

“Hey,” Robbs says, grabbing the hand on the bed and turning to face Theon properly. “Hopefully any future Lord of Winterfell won’t be needed for a very long time—and anyone with a brain can see that the _current_ Lord will be much better married to you than otherwise.” Theon flushes as much as every other time Robb says something implying how he feels and can’t stop himself from smiling.

“You do still need an heir, and—”

“And I have four siblings.”

“Jon can’t give you an heir and you know it.” Theon says, biting his lip. He’s never wished to be a woman, especially not ironborn at that, but he can’t deny it would’ve put a lot of persistent problems to rest.

“Bran’s lord after me, his children can inherit. And if he doesn’t have any then Sansa’s can, or Arya’s even. And,” he says, cutting off Theon’s protest. “If none of them have children, then we’ll figure something out. But I think it’s a little early to assume we’ll run out.”

“Do any of your siblings now you have designs on their future spawn?”

“We can talk to them about it tomorrow,” he says, and pushes gently at Theon until they’re both lying down. “Now, have you come up with any more idiot reasons I shouldn’t marry you or can we go to sleep?”

“…I’m done.” Theon says, and Robb grins. They kiss once, twice, and settle into the pillows. “Shouldn’t we at least pretend we’re sleeping separately, though?”

“Yes…” Robb sighs and kisses him again. Then he climbs out of bed, sets his clothes to rights, and blows out the candle before wishing Theon goodnight.

When he’s gone, Theon stares up at the ceiling. _We’re to be married in a month_ , Robb had said, and yes. They are. And he can’t wait.

*

The next day, Robb requests all of his siblings join them in his solar. Theon is standing by the window when they all arrive, looking out at the thin covering of snow on the ground.

He hadn’t spent much time in this room when Ned Stark was still alive, but he remembers each time as much for the look of the solar as the sense of frustrated disappointment that came with every reminder that his father had all but forgotten him. He’s been in it a few times, since they all made their way back and Robb took over the room, but it feels different. It helps, that his visits are split between discussing his wedding, actually being asked his opinion on things around the castle, and quietly keeping Robb company while he works.

And, once or twice, not-so-quietly distracting him from said work.

Still, he can’t help but feel a little distant when Sansa, Arya, and Bran trail in. All of Ned Stark’s children likely have very different memories and emotions associated with this room than Theon does, and he spares a half moment to wonder at what it might have meant, if—well, if things had been different.

“So,” Robb says once they’ve all settled in. “You probably wondering why we called you—"

“Let me guess,” Arya interrupts. “You want to elope.” Theon can feel Robb rolling his eyes as well as he can hear him huff a laugh.

“He’s wanted to elope since day one,” Sansa says, waving her hand. “If they’re actually planning on it I should hope he’s clever enough not to warn us ahead of time.” She smiles wryly. “Sometimes I think Theon and I are the only ones who actually want this thing done properly.”

Well. He is the only one of them that never really expected to get married at Winterfell. But it’s not—not something he’s going to point out.

“We’re not eloping,” Theon turns around when Robb speaks. “We’re here to talk about Winterfell.” Arya and Sansa both look confused, if in entirely different ways, and Bran just stares gamely at Robb. “Theon and I won’t be having children, so as near as we can figure the order of succession is Bran and his children, then Sansa and hers, then Arya.” Robb looks at him, then back at his siblings. “We just… thought we ought to discuss it.”

For her part, Arya is looking more than a little pleased at being last in line. Theon can’t quite figure out what emotion is happening on Sansa’s face, but Bran is a serene as ever when he speaks.

“I suppose I could be lord after you, but I won’t be having any children.” _Oh_ , Theon thinks. Robb hasn’t come to the same understanding, because his brow furrows.

“Why not?” he says, moving toward Bran. “I think it’s a little early to say—”

“Sansa?” Theon interrupts, and raises a brow when Robb looks at him questioningly. He inclines his head toward Sansa, who’s clearly thinking very carefully.

“I think, even after—everything, I would still like to have a family,” she says slowly. “I’d just rather not leave home to do it.” Robb reaches forward and grasps her hand in his own.

“I would never ask you to,” he says, as sincere and solid as if he were swearing an oath. “I would never ask any of you to leave again.”

“We know,” Arya says, and then the three of them are crowding around Bran so that can all embrace each other. Theon watches them, the last Starks in Winterfell and nearly the last on Westeros, and is suddenly, deeply homesick for—somewhere. Something.

“Still,” Sansa says as they all slowly pull back. Theon looks away, back to the window. “It’s nice to have a reason.”

Maybe—maybe there is some small good to come of this.

*

Bran turns to him, as they all make to leave, and asks if Theon would join him on a walk. Theon says yes.

The second Stark brother—now the youngest of them all—is a man changed more than the rest of them. Where the others have flashes, glimpses, or whole conversations that remind him of the children they once were, the Brandon Stark that came back from the Wall shared very little with the annoying boy who never learned to fight.

In some ways, it was easier. Unlike his siblings, unlike Theon, the Bran-that-now-is begs no comparison to the Bran-that-once-was, makes no constant reminder of a stark and heartbreaking difference. Easier—at least until Theon remembers who drove Bran from his home in the first place.

“That was kind of you,” Bran says. He doesn’t sound grateful—just the same neutral tone of distance he’s had every day since they returned.

“I’ve… felt that doubt,” Theon says, swallowing back the horror. It shouldn’t matter, now that the threat hasn’t held and he really shouldn’t be fathering any children anyway. It shouldn’t matter, but he still doesn’t like to think of it.

“I know.” Right. Of course.

They had mentioned, after Bran had casually named himself as the Three-Eyed Raven as if anyone knew what that meant, that Bran could know everything, now. Could see anything, from any where and any when that he wanted. There are many things Theon knows that he would rather Bran _not_ see, for Sansa’s sake and Robb’s sake and sanity’s sake, but he’s not sure if he’s capable of denying Bran that. Not sure he’s deserving of it, either.

The scars and missing fingers always give people pause. He can’t imagine what watching it would be like.

“When you took Winterfell, I asked if you had hated us the whole time. Do you have an answer now?”

He had wanted to. And he had, every once in a while: when someone reminded him, when he read a history book, when he was caught off-guard by his own reflection. He would hollow with hate, then, for Lord Stark, for the King, for his father and the Northmen and anyone he could blame. Why should he feel the punishment for his father’s failure? What kind of justice was that?

Sometimes, though, in moments between anger—joking and bickering with Jon, scaring the little ones with stories, sitting and standing and laying with Robb—he forgot to hate them. Or rather, he found he could not bring himself to.

It had felt like shame, when he’d gone back to Pyke and been confronted with the fact that he felt love for his captors. He should have hated them, wanted to hate them, but was too weak for any kind of love to actually do so. It made him less of a man, if ever any ironborn saw him as one. What kind of man holds love for his enemies? What kind of man forgets his enemies _are_ his enemies?

He could not forget, not for long. Not when they dressed in him different colors, not when they sat him at lower tables, not when each Stark learned their houses and always stopped at his. Not when the men told tales of a squashed rebellion behind his back, not when visitors always looked at him like a freakshow novelty. Not when he held Ice for Lord Stark at every execution.

Maybe it had been meant as a sign of respect; to show Ned Stark trusted a Greyjoy with a sword behind his back. Or a subtle lesson in what kind of Lord Greyjoy he wanted Theon to be. Or maybe it was just easier than picking between everyone else.

To Theon, it always felt like a warning.

_Be careful_ , or else. _Know your place_ , or else. _Keep your father in line_ , or else.

_This blade was meant for Lord Stark_ , he always thought, _and my neck for this blade_. He was never free from that gleaming shadow, no matter where he went or what he did. A sword made more important than his own life.

And yet the man outlived the sword. And yet there was no justice in loving his captors, only truth.

“No,” he tells Bran. “I don’t.”

There’s not much point in lying, any more.

*

Theon has actually never met the current blacksmith at Winterfell—he knows the man fought against the dead as much as, if not more than, anyone else, but that was on land and Theon was with the Ironborn until the sea ran out. He’s heard enough from Robb about how his sister stumbled upon a Baratheon bastard to recognize the man when he walks into the forge, though.

The man is working at the anvil, hammer clanging with each swing, completely oblivious to the world around him. Theon clears his throat.

“Your grace—“ He turns, stumbling into a messy bow. “Forgive me, I—“

Theon waves off the apology. “Gendry, right?” The other man nods. “Only one of us is actually working right now, Gendry, no need to apologize for doing your job.”

“If course, your—your grace.”

It’s unfailingly weird to be referred to as if he’s royalty—not in the least because he is, now. As much as his father’s insistence on _the iron price_ made Theon want to roll his eyes, he can’t help but feel like an imposter, that Yara had done all of the actual work in reclaiming their home, and Theon had just been a not-quite-dead weight. He might be a prince in name, but he hadn’t really done anything to deserve the title, in the end.

Then again, neither had anyone born to it.

 Gendry coughs. “Do you… need anything? Your grace?”

Theon shoots him what he hopes to be a placating grin. “Actually, yes. I’m in need of a sword.”

“Well, you’re in the right place.

Theon smirks. “An ancestral Greyjoy marriage sword.”

Gendry’s eyes turn anxious, confused. Theon grins.

“I don’t… have one of those.”

“No?” Theon asks, eyes bright.

“Don’t be an ass, Theon.” Arya melts out of whatever shadow she was hiding in and Theon swears his heart stops for a second. He hadn’t heard her coming and he—He’s not a big fan of surprises, these days.

She shoots him a confused look as she levers herself to sit on the forge’s table. He takes a moment to try and calm his heart beat, slow his breathing. Arya surely notices, but he’s hoping Gendry hasn’t.

“You ask the impossible,” Theon quips, trying to move on. Arya rolls her eyes.

“He wants you to make the sword, idiot.” She throws a cloth at Gendry, hitting him in the chest. He scrambles to stop it from falling, then wipes his brow.

“You want me to make an _ancestral_ , _Greyjoy_ sword.” Gendry states, eyes flicking between Arya and Theon.

“It’ll be ancestral once I’m someone’s ancestor. Or Robb is, since I suppose it’ll be a Stark sword once it’s not in my possession.”

“It’s a gift. For Lord Stark?” Gendry says, sounding a little relieved at finally figuring out some of what’s going on. Theon almost feels bad for not explaining it outright, but he always feels uncomfortable referring to the wedding to anyone not named Stark. Or Greyjoy, but it’s not as if Yara’s here with him right now.

“A wedding gift, of a sort.”

Gendry nods. “I can work with that.”

Theon knows very little about making swords, he’ll readily admit. He does have some ideas: no engravings on the blade ( _Much harder to clean_ , Arya says), the hilt in the shape of a kraken ( _Original_ , she drawls), and a few things of sentiment to show it’s Theon’s sword and not some other Greyjoy’s ( _Needs more wolves_ , she quips, and smirks at him.)

“And I have something else,” Theon digs through his pockets until he finds what he’s looking for. “Can you incorporate this?”

It’s a necklace, old and worn, with two rounded pieces of moonstone centered between two scythes. Yara had sent it when she confirmed he’d have to figure out a sword himself. _This was our mother’s_ , Yara had written. _A Harlaw heirloom with nowhere else to go. It’s yours now_.

Did it count, this inheritance? Did Theon pay the iron price when his mother died in a room he’d never seen, years after last seeing him? What did he do to earn this, other than live?

“What’s that?” Arya asks, snatching it from him.

“Moonstone. It used to be my mother’s,” he says, wetting his mouth. “My cousin—well, my mother’s cousin—wields a sword with a similar gem. This one won’t be Valerian steel, but,” he swallows, “I’m as much Harlaw as I am Greyjoy. Always liked them better, anyway.”

“It’s pretty,” Arya says, handing the heirloom off to Gendry.

“The Harlaw sword…” Gendry fiddles with the necklace, looking at the stones. “That’s Nightfall?”

“Yes,” Theon says, surprised. “Have you seen it?”

“No,” Gendry shakes his head, looking up at him. “But Tobho Mott made me memorize all the Valerian steel swords still known while I was with him, and that was one of them.”

“Last I saw it was on my sister’s ship after the Night King’s defeat.” Ser Harras had clapped him on the back and re-sworn House Harlaw’s allegiance to Yara. “Nice sword.”

“Well, this one won’t be Valerian steel, but it’ll be as close as I can get it.”

Theon does not doubt it.

“Why a sword, anyway?” Arya asks, as Gendry moves behind her to rummage through supplies. “Wouldn’t a bow be more appropriate, coming from you?”

“Ironborn tradition,” Theon shrugs. “Besides, Robb’s useless with a bow. All your brothers are, no matter what I tried to show them.”

“I would’ve been better.” Theon can see the fond exasperation in Gendry’s posture at Arya’s words. No doubt she’s right, and they all know it, but honestly. She’s a warrior, a Faceless Man, the girl who survived travelling the whole length of Westeros with the crown out for her. She needn’t be so smug.

“If I had taught you to shoot, your father would have taken my head.” He says mildly. “If your mother hadn’t got to me first.”

Arya huffs.

*

The banners start arriving a week before the wedding.

Theon mostly tries to avoid them, outside of welcoming them and eating near them at dinner. The last time he’d seen most of these men had been right before he turned his cloak on their then-King. There were a few that he’d run into at the end of the Long Night, and others he only remembered from before Ned Stark’s death, but he figured it was better for everyone involved if he didn’t find himself in an empty room with any of them.

If he had, though, maybe Lord Flint wouldn’t have waited until dinner to call him a “squid traitor” provokingly loud enough for their table to hear.

“Pardon me, Lord Flint,” Robb calls. The tables around them hush until eventually the entire hall is looking their way. Theon sets his cup down. “Would you mind repeating what you just said? I’m sure I must have misheard.”

Lord Flint takes a drink and stands. “I said I’d have hoped the Lord of Winterfell would have chosen a Northman for himself over a squid traitor pretending to be a Stark.” His voice is pitched to carry, harsh and brittle and resounding through the hall.

“I heard true, then. Pity.” Robb looks nearly murderous. Theon is not happy with the turn of events, himself, but he’s been expecting something of the sort. He hadn’t been looking forward to it.

“My liege, your bannermen and I must admit some puzzlement as to your _affection_ for Lord _Theon_ —"

“Prince,” Arya interrupts. “He’s actually a Prince, not a Lord. Try and remember.”

Theon has seen Arya best a number of grown men since she came back from wherever she hid from the Lannisters, but never for his sake. He’s not sure she’s ever explicitly defended him, actually—she’d always liked Jon the best, and not the way Theon made fun at his expense.

“And what, exactly, is the source of your confusion?” Robb questions.

“Firstly,” Lord Flint says, sneering. “He cannot help you continue the Stark line.”

“If it’s our family you’re worried about, no need. Winterfell will stay in Stark hands.” Bran replies. “The King himself specifically blessed this union and our plans for succession.”

“A royal blessing cannot erase great misdeeds!” Lord Flint cries, clearly frustrated at finding more opposition among the Starks than he expected.

“He is a traitor! Can you trust him like you trust the sons and daughters of your bannermen, with your interests, your protection—"

“And did you save me from Ramsay Snow?” Sansa interrupts, head held high. “Did you protect me from a torturous sham of a marriage to the son of a Stark bannerman?”

Flint pales. “My lady, I—” Sansa quiets him with a raised hand.

“Trust is a thing that is hard won and easily lost, Lord Flint. Houses earn our family’s trust through generations of support but may lose it when they refuse a single call. Men lose trust when they turn their backs on us, but they may earn it back through suffering and remorse and acts of great heroism.” She smiles, a carefully calculated thing. “House Stark will always want for more men and houses it can trust, and be glad when it finds them.”

“My lady speaks wisely. Surely you must see it is _not_ wise for a man no bannerman’s support to marry their liege lord—"

“Would you rather he married Lady Stark?” Robb stands, and the hall hushes. “Oh, yes, I could wed my sister to a man I know would never harm her, then cuckold whatever wife I took—if I took one at all—and his blood would sit at Winterfell until the last Stark dies or the North itself is gone.”

“Enough,” Theon says. He places his hand on Robb’s, looking up at him until the other man sits down.

Theon has never had presence. He has been impossible to ignore, due to his loud words or sharp amusement or the carefully calculated casualness of his sprawl, but it has never been effortless. Lady Stark could always enter a room and be the most noticeable person there without doing anything, but Theon has always had to fight for interest.

He does not exercise such efforts so publicly, now. He is more aware of judgement, more aware that as often as not he is found lacking.

Still, when he stands with as much dignity and bearing as he can find, he likes to think the crowd notices.

They certainly seem to be paying attention when he starts speaking, if only to judge him.

“Does it help, Lord Flint, to know that I agreed?” Robb starts next to him, so Theon places a hand on his shoulder. If a defense needs to be made then he is the one who should make it.

Flint does not respond, though his eyes are focused on him, so Theon continues. “I can assure any man that I have worried over my faults longer than him. For I have known them longer, and I never forget to worry.”

“I have never known a Greyjoy to remember their flaws,” Flint says, and Theon grins sardonically.

“And I have never known a Flint to forget them.” He shifts, still facing Flint but turning himself out to address the entire hall as well. “I cannot help how I was born,” Theon says. “No more than you can help being a Flint instead of a Mormont or a Reed. Or a Stark.” No matter how often he might have wished it himself, no matter how much shame he might have felt because of it.

It seems the entire North wishes they had been born a Stark—at least he’s not the only one.

“I cannot and will not apologize for the deeds of my forebearers. Only my own.” He looks at the Starks next to him and takes a deep breath. “I have done this family and this castle a great wrong. I cannot deny that, nor can I claim that I can ever completely atone for that mistake. But the closest I can get is by dedicating every remaining moment of my life to their cause.” Lord Flint’s daughter is sitting behind him, mouth a thin line. She looks worried, body leaning ever so slightly away from her father, but when Theon catches her eye, she gives him a small smile. It’s a kind smile—he feels sorry she was dragged into this.

“Your sons and daughters would do their best for Winterfell and it’s future because of their honor, their loyalty, and their sense of duty. As would I. But I have another motivation, and in this regard, I have them all beat.” He lifts his hands, palms up and fingers spread. “What could motivate a man more than guilt?”

Lord Flint looks at him, face hard and eyes searching. Theon looks back, self-deprecating smile on his lips. They face each other for a long moment of silence, then Lord Flint nods.

Flint’s daughter stands, then, and raises her cup. “To Prince Theon and Lord Stark,” she says, “And the future of the North.”

*

The last time a sitting monarch had come to  Winterfell, Theon had been young, confident, and in possession of all of his fingers and toes.

He’s much happier this time around.

“Your grace,” Robb greets, inclining his head. Yara’s not his queen but she is _a_ queen, and the Starks were always taught to address people properly.

“Lord Stark,” she returns, looking around them. “Lovely home you have here.” Her grin is a sharp, happy thing. Theon’s missed it more than he’d thought.

Robb looks slightly thrown, though gods known he should be used to the Greyjoy sense of humor by this point. Theon shrugs when Robb looks at him. He doesn’t pretend to understand Yara. “Thank you, your grace,” Robb says.

“Bit cold.”

Theon smoothers a laugh, coughing. Yara turns to him.

“Little brother!” Her grin grows sharper, wider, and oh, he’s missed her.

“My queen,” he says, bowing his head and rolling his eyes just enough to egg her on.

“You look like shit.”

_Typical Yara_ , he thinks, noticing the whispers of the household behind him. Robb shifts next to him, affronted, and really, Theon is a little touched for how Winterfell seems to have taken Yara’s comment as an insult and actually bothered being offended for him.

He clears his throat, just enough to let everyone know he’s going to speak. “As in all things, I follow my queen’s example.”

“You little shit,” she says, stalking forward to grab his head and knock their heads together just enough to hurt. Theon grins. “Now,” she turns to Robb, voice raised. “I hope you have beds and ale, for I have men who’ll take them both.”

“We have plenty of both, and more besides.” Robb responds, letting his voice carry. The assembled crowd cheers, and the silence breaks, people moving and talking again. Robb speaks a few words to delegate the rooming of the ironborn, then gestures for Yara and Theon to follow him.

The three of them and Sansa end up in his solar, door closed, Yara sprawling into the nearest chair she can find.

“Thought I’d left this cold behind when we took on that monster at the Wall.” She swivels, eyes on Theon. “And you want to live here?”

“It’s grown on me.” He says, tilting his head. “Like a fungus. Or a barnacle.”

“Or frostbite,” Yara taunts, wiggling her fingers.

“We can hear you,” Robb says. Theon grins at him.

“And I’ve been telling you that there’s something wrong with you for years,” he says, crossing his arms lazily.

“You’re just annoyed that you always catch a cold,” Robb jibes, looking at him with a glint in his eyes.

“And you can’t last ten minutes on a ship without being sick.”

“Wimp.” Yara scoffs.

“The ground isn’t supposed to move, Theon!” It’s an old argument, practically scripted, and he knows his next line by heart.

“And stepping outside shouldn’t risk me turning into ice!”

“Is this what they’re like all the time?” Yara interrupts them, eyebrow arched.

Sansa laughs lightly, nodding. “They’re always either arguing or kissing—sometimes both.”

“Ehg.” Yara makes a face. “I don’t need to hear about my little brother’s love life—“

“You’ve bragged in front of me more times than I can count,” Theon protests.

“—So was there a particular reason we came back here?” Yara asks Robb. “If we’re just catching up then I could stand to have an ale by me.”

“Ah, right.” Robb reaches into his desk and pulls out a roll of paper Theon is very familiar with. “We thought you might want to take a look at the marriage contract.”

“You thought right,” Yara says, taking the contract and unrolling it in front of her.

Theon already knows what’s written in it—he helped make the bloody thing—so he takes the time to watch his sister. She looks good, for having been on the road for a few weeks. Her hair’s a little longer, maybe, and there’s a slight carefulness to how she’s holding herself that probably only Theon is noticing. Yara was always uncomfortable this far from the coast, surrounded by another House’s walls and men. Much like all the other ironborn, really, even Theon. His only exception was Winterfell, and only just.

“Wait, what?” Theon blinks out of his musings when Yara speaks. She looks up at him, brows furrowed. “You’re giving up your title?”

“That’s what _I_ said,” Robb mutters. Theon shoots a glare at him then turns back to Yara.

“It was my idea. A sort of compromise,” he explains. “The Northmen already don’t like me, if I ask them to call me Prince they’ll just think I’m trying to rub my _superiority_ in their faces.”

“And your way of getting them to like you is to pretend to be less than you are?” Yara scowls.

Theon rubs hand across his face. “That’s not—”

“Did you ask for this?” Yara turns to Robb.

He shakes his head. “I specifically asked him not to, but he insisted.”

“Look, it’s not that big of a deal,” Theon starts, but Yara interrupts him by standing up.

“We went through hell to get our home back and you’re just going to throw away the title you fought for? That _I_ fought for?” She jabs the roll of paper at him angrily. He’s suddenly very thankful she isn’t heling a knife. “Is this about my inheriting, because you said—”

“No! Yara, don’t be stupid,” She doesn’t understand, like Robb didn’t understand, like no one but him seems to understand, and it’s maddening. “Anyone with eyes can see that you’re better on the salt throne than I would have _ever_ been.”

“So, what?” she asks, voice turning bitter. “You’re just embarrassed of being the little brother to the Greyjoy bitch—"

“I’ll _never_ be embarrassed of being your brother.” He interrupts, clenching his fists. “And I’m not ashamed of being a Greyjoy, I’ve never been. Even when I should’ve been, honestly.” He sighs. It was too pathetic a thing to give voice to, really, but apparently no one will let him make this choice without him explaining. So, fine. He’ll explain.  “I’m not complaining about being a Prince Greyjoy. I’ve got no problem with you on the salt throne, and no problem with what that means for my own position. It’s… it’s being _Theon Greyjoy_ that I’ve got a problem with.”

They all look at him like he’s mad.

He rubs at his wrist, staring at his hand. “It’s been six years since I… betrayed the North. Maybe in another six they’ll have learned to accept me. Maybe not. They’ll probably never _respect_ me, but so long as it doesn’t stop anyone from following either of you, I don’t really care. And that’ll be a lot easier if I don’t insist on reminding people that you have a traitor for a husband and _you_ have a fuck up for a brother.”

There’s silence, for a long moment. Theon doesn’t look up from where his glove meets the cuff of his shirt. He doesn’t want to risk seeing the looks on their faces when they realize he’s right.

“You really are the stupidest Greyjoy.” Yara snaps. Theon looks at her, eyes wide. “I can’t—Uhg!” She throws her hand up and points at Robb. “You deal with this, I can’t talk to him when he’s being this stupid.” She settles back in her chair, arms crossed, glaring indiscriminately around the room.

Robb turns to him, face full of something sad and sympathetic. Theon resolutely doesn’t flinch.

“Is that really what you think of yourself?” he asks. Theon looks at the ground. “You know that we don’t think that, right?”

“Doesn’t matter if you don’t so long as everyone else does.”

“Actually, I think my opinion matters most,” Robb says, “since I’m the one you’re marrying.”

“And _I’m_ your bloody queen.” Yara mutters.

Theon really doesn’t want to get into an argument about his personal self-worth, especially not one where he’s vastly outnumbered. “This doesn’t have to be a whole emotional thing,” he says, hands splayed. “It’s just a political choice.”

“I think there’s a strong argument to keep your title, actually.” Sansa shifts closer to the middle of the room, and Theon startles. He had almost forgotten she was there. “Specifically _because_ it will remind everyone that the Ironborn Queen’s brother and the Warden of the North’s husband are the same person. It’s the whole point of a political marriage, really, to ensure that you cannot cross one of us without crossing the other.”

_I’m not going to win this argument_ , he thinks. _And it’d just be painful to keep trying_. He still doesn’t truly agree, the thought of being Prince Theon in Winterfell doesn’t quite sit right with him, but if three of the people he trusts most in the world disagree with him, who is he to doubt them.

 “Fine,” he says, I’ll keep the title.” He shrugs, trying to play off the whole thing with a smirk. “At least it’ll save the hassle of figuring out what to call me.”

Yara rolls her eyes and Robb gives a small smile. Sansa just looks at him, assessing, and he can’t help but look away.

*

The thing Theon’s mind keeps circling back too, no matter how interesting the rest of the day before his wedding ought to be, is that he’s being _given away_. The glaring comparison, the one that demands all attention, is the last time a Greyjoy handed him off to a Stark.

Rodrik and Maron were never kind to him, not really. They were too jagged, too harsh, and he too much their younger for any real affection. But he was young, and small, and they were his brothers—so he loved them. He loved them from day they left to fight his father’s war until the day they didn’t come back and he realized there was nothing left to love.

_Ned Stark killed your brothers_ , Yara said in the moments before he left. _Do not forget you are a Greyjoy, and you are meant for the sea._ His mother held him tight in a grip that had to be broken, screaming his name and her grief and her love. His father did not even look at him.

Lord Stark hadn’t really looked at him, either. Not until the journey to Winterfell was over and a little red-headed boy had grabbed Theon’s hand and dragged him around the castle. It was like somewhere in the mess of being a Greyjoy everyone had forgotten he was a child, too, until a four-year-old forced them to remember.

Theon could cast no judgement on whether being Ned Stark’s ward had given him a better or worse life—except for that little red-headed boy. He likes the rest of them, now, for the horrors they have lived together and the joined work of rebuilding themselves, but Robb had liked him without any of that, first.

It is unfailingly and gloriously _weird_ that they’ve gotten from two children meeting for the first time to two men, about to be married.

And just to add to the whole bizarre situation, he’s being escorted through the godswood by his sister. He’s not sure if it’s weirder because she’s a woman or because it’s _Yara_.

She’s wearing the nicest outfit he’s ever seen her in—which means it’s still Greyjoy armor, only less beaten than normal and still less formal than what even Arya’s wearing. Strapped to her hip is the sword Theon is going to give to _his husband_ in less than twenty minutes, and Theon is fairly certain he can spot another two or three blades on her person. She looks wonderful.

Yara had suggested a few additions to their ceremony, as she had actual knowledge of weddings on Pyke. Theon had been right about the swords, but he’d forgotten the words, the water, and the Drowned Priest. They’ll be married in front of the Old Gods first, for the North, then the Drowned God for the ironborn.

Theon had known, then, that Bran and a Drowned Man would be up by the heart tree and a surprisingly large number of people crowded into the godswood before them, but he pays all of them no mind as soon as he sets eyes on Robb.

Robb, who’s standing just in front of the heart tree, a vision of grey and white and red. Robb, who’s beaming a damp smile straight at Theon. Robb, his soon-to-be husband.

“Are you crying?” he murmurs when he’s close enough that only Robb will hear him.

“Maybe.” Robb wipes his face, smiling like an idiot. Theon’s sure he matches.

“Well, if you’re that distraught we can—”

“Oh, shut up,” Robb huffs, still smiling. Sansa coughs pointedly from the crowd of people watching.

“Who comes before the Old Gods this night?” Bran asks.

“Theon, of House Greyjoy, Prince of the Iron Islands, comes here to be wed. A man grown, trueborn and noble, he comes to ask the blessing of the gods.” Yara is only slightly sarcastic as she calls him _grown_ and _noble_. Theon’s pretty sure he’s the only one who notices. “Who comes to claim him?”

Robb’s gaze moves from Theon just long enough to recite his part to Yara. “Robb, of House Stark, Lord of Winterfell and Warden of the North. Who gives him?”

“Yara, of House Greyjoy, Queen of the Iron Islands, his sister.”

“Prince Theon, do you take this man?” Bran asks, and Theon feels like his face is going to split in two.

“I take him.”

Bran nods and Robb loosens his cloak. Sansa had taken special care in making a new Stark cloak to replace the one that was destroyed—not at Theon’s hand, thank gods, at least not directly—and the result is a beautiful grey and white fall of fabric. It’s trimmed in curling embroidery, lined with fur, and in the right light the direwolf’s eyes glimmer. It looks, a little, like the wolf is alive, watching over the back of its wearer, baring its teeth.

 When Robb drapes it over Theon’s shoulders, warm and enveloping, it feels like a part of him has finally come home. He’s still of Pyke—but now he’s finally of Winterfell too.

The priest of the Drowned God steps forward, then, and Robb and Theon turn to face him. He recites some words that Theon mostly misses, then asks for the sword to be presented. Theon turns to Yara, who hands it to him, then faces Robb. He pulls the bade halfway out of the sheath and holds it in front of him.

It is a solid, beautiful sword, and Theon had been a little overwhelmed when Gendry handed it over to him. The blade was simple, sharp and smooth, but the hilt was a work of art. At the pommel started the head of a kraken, its body forming the grip and a design of arms and tentacles wrapping and twisting over the cross-guard. The metal was textured, forming a pattern shadows to make the hilt look a darker grey than the metal truly was. In the place where eyes ought to have been were the two pieces of moonstone from his mother’s necklace.

It is undeniably a Greyjoy sword—with Harlaw gems and Stark colors.

He clears his throat and speaks. “I, Theon, son of House Greyjoy of Pyke and Prince of the Iron Islands, give you this sword. It shall be an heirloom of our house, and all who cross us will know the wrath of Nagga’s Eye.”

Robb grasps the hilt, and the two of them recite “My sword is your sword, and your battles mine.” He fastens it around his waist, moonstones shimmering in the torchlight.

The Drowned Man produces a jar of seawater, and they both kneel. He pours it over them, first Theon then Robb, and speaks. “Let these men be born again from the sea, as you were. Bless them with salt, bless them with stone, bless them with steel.”

“What is dead may never die,” Theon says, and Robb beside him.

“What is dead may never die, but rises again, harder and stronger.”

They stand then, both ceremonies done, and kiss. It’s chaste, just closed lips and a flicker of Robb’s tongue—but it’s impossibly _more_ for that fact that when he opens his eyes Robb is smiling at him, face wet, and Theon can call him _my husband_.

Then everything is a kind of warm whirlwind until Theon looks up and he’s sitting at a place of honor, and Robb is asking him a question.

“What?” Theon asks, and Robb chuckles.

“I knew you weren’t actually paying attention.”

“Well forgive me if my lord husband”—he can’t stifle the smile at those words—“is terribly boring. Wish I knew before I married him, but I suppose it’s too late now—”

Theon breaks into a laugh when Robb steals his cup from his hand. “Don’t you have your own damn wine?” He asks, rolling his eyes when Robb takes a long drink.

“Yours tastes better,” Robb grins. “Must be your boring lord husband’s doing.” He lifts the cup to take another sip.

Theon leans forward, bracing an elbow on the table and curling toward Robb. “You like that, you should see what else he tries to put in my mouth.”

Robb chokes on Theon’s wine, coughing loudly enough that the rest of the table shoots them concerned glances. Theon just smiles cheerily, thumping Robb’s back until he’s settled enough to send everyone a wavery smile and send them back to their own conversations.

Robb leans in toward Theon, pitching his voice low. “By my memory, _tries_ isn’t really an accurate word.”

“I could say _asks politely_ if you like, but since you’re so keen on accuracy I might say _begs_ instead.” Theon grins wickedly when Robb’s face flushes a blotchy red.

“As if you’re any better.”

“I think we both know that I’m much worse.” Theon smirks, grabbing his wine back and finishing off the little liquid left. When he’s done, Robb is looking at him with a certain smug softness that makes a warm feeling twist low in his gut. He thinks it might be Robb’s _I love you and now you’re mine forever_ face, which—well, Theon’s glad he doesn’t blush like Robb does, but his ears definitely go hot.

It’s a little much to keep eye contact with for too long, so he reaches to grab Robb’s wine and takes another drink.

“Do you want to leave?” Robb asks, all the teasing from before gone, but none of the low warmth.

“Hmm? Oh, no, it’s fine.” It’s a little loud, maybe, and there are a lot of people, but in this little emotional enclave with Robb, he’s quite content. “Be a bit sad if I couldn’t handle a measly little feast.”

“No, I meant—Nobody seems to need us any longer and I’d much rather welcome my new husband in private.” _Oh_. Well, maybe not all of the teasing was gone.

“A Stark, flouting tradition and skipping past the bedding ceremony?” Theon quips, raising his eyebrows with mock surprise.

“I don’t believe we need any help to get to the point of the exercise.”

A grin spreads slow and lascivious across Theon’s face. “No, I don’t think we do.”

“We’re more conspicuous as a pair,” Robb says, and it’s not like it isn’t obvious, but the fact that it’s _Robb_ , turning that king of a strategic mind to the puzzle of leaving their wedding feast so they can _fuck_ is one hell of a turn on. “You slip out, I’ll make our excuses and follow you?”

“You think they’ll give you up that easily?”

“I’m the only one here with a weapon, I’ll be fine.” Robb nods toward Nagga’s Eye at his hip.

“I don’t know if it’s endearing or troubling that you actually believe that,” Theon muses, thinking of Yara and her endless number of hidden blades.

“Do you want to fuck me or not?”

“I’m going, I’m going,” Theon says, raising his hands in surrender. He steals one last drink of Robb’s wine before standing as casually as he can and making his way out of the hall. Yara catches his eye just as he’s leaving.

_Alright?_ She mouths. He signals a _yes_ to her and nods his head back in Robb’s direction. She rolls her eyes and raises her drink in a mock-toast. Theon just grins.

He heads toward Robb’s rooms— _their_ rooms, now, it’s not as if theirs is the kind of marriage made with separate rooms in mind. The corridors are empty, everyone in the household attending the wedding, feast, and Theon can’t help humming an absent-minded tune to himself as he walks.

He is happy, very happy, the kind of happy he used to think would only come from taking his place as Lord Greyjoy. He was wrong about that, as he was wrong about many things, but he doesn’t really mind; no Lord Greyjoy would’ve been able to have Robb Stark as a husband, and now that he has that he’d never choose to give it up.

Theon walks into their bedroom and stretches his arms up, letting the length of his spine and shoulders shift and straighten. The fire is still burning steadily in the corner, thank the gods, so he removes the Stark cloak and lays it on the bed. Then he stops.

Robb is, at best, five minutes behind him. Theon could easily just wait around until he catches up but looking at the cloak spread out on the bed has given him an idea. A very particular idea. And if not on their wedding night, then when?

He takes off his gloves, first, because he can’t get anything else off with them on and he’ll chicken out if he has to do it last, and sets them as neatly as he can on the bench by the wall. He’s not sure where his things are going to be, now that he’ll live here as well as Robb, but Theon figures lumped together on a bench is neater than what most newlyweds to with their clothing. His Greyjoy breastplate is next, then the rest of his clothes and small clothes, until he’s standing naked in the middle of the room.

_This used to be Lord and Lady Stark’s room_ , he thinks unbidden, and then resolutely shoves that thought out of his mind, along with the anxiety that always comes with the promise of someone seeing his scars. He walks quickly to the bed, propping himself up against the pillows in the middle of the mattress, then grabs the Stark cloak and drapes it across his body as artfully as he can.

He’s very aware of himself, and the whole endeavor is a little awkward, but it’s worth it when Robb comes through the door and stops flat, mouth dropping open.

“Hello,” Theon says.

Robb’s mouth closes, and he visibly wills himself to speak. “Cheater,” he says, voice rasping.

Theon grins. “I think you mean _forward-thinker_.”

 Robb just looks at him, eyes hungry. Theon pushes himself up so he’s sitting and the top of the cloak falls to rest in his lap. One of his hands clenches in the furs.

“Well?” he asks, and Robb lunges.

Theon barely blinks and then Robb’s hands are on his face, pulling him in for a much filthier kiss than the one they shared earlier. Robb’s mouth is hot and wet and demanding, and Theon matches him breath for breath. He bites at Robb’s lip and Robb growls, slipping his tongue in to twine with Theon’s. The brush of Robb’s beard against his face is a familiar twinge, echoing the weight of him across Theon’s lap.

Robb moves to mouth his way across Theon’s neck and shoulders, little licks and scrapes that have him moaning and twisting his fingers in Robb’s clothes. Every place their skin meets feels hot and heady, and Theon’s only barely paying enough attention to realize Robb’s making his way further downward.

“Wait, wait,” he says, breathless. Robb pulls back, brows furrowed and mouth red. Theon grips his hips and smirks. “I believe there were promises of putting something in my mouth?”

Robb sucks in a hard breath. “Theon…” he moans, but makes no protest when Theon leverages himself to flip them, his hips between Robb’s legs.

He grabs Robb’s wrists and presses his hands to the fastenings of his tunic. When Robb moves to start undoing them, Theon turns to his breeches, unlacing them and shifting to pull the whole pile of fabric off. Robb’s done the same, when Theon finishes, so he leans up to press their naked fronts together and kiss him. Then he moves a hand down to grip Robb’s cock and thumb at the head.

“That’s,” Robb breathes, “not your mouth.”

“Are you complaining that I’ve got my hand on your cock?” Theon asks, mocking incredulity.

“Nn—oh,” Robb gasps, dragging out the end of the word when Theon gives a particularly tight twist.

“Good,” he says. “I’d hate to be remiss in my marital duties.”

“You’re very committed to them, aren’t y—Ooh!” Robb cries, hips jerking when Theon leans down to lick a wet stripe up his length.

“I am,” Theon grins, then shifts down the bed to properly suck his husband off.

He takes the tip into his mouth, laving his tongue over the head until the hitch in Robb’s breathing is a persistent, repetative thing. Theon takes more of him into his mouth, using one hand to grip the parts he can’t reach and bracing the other across Robb’s hips.

Theon had never thought himself as good at sucking someone off as he was at being sucked off, but based on many other times, Robb seems to be of the opposite opinion. This time did not seem to be an exception.

Robb’s hands move to Theon’s head, fingers running through and tangling in his hair. His voice was high and breathy, littering soft moans and curses in the air. When Theon spared a glance up through his eyelashes, he was treated to the glorious sight of Robb stretched out above him, head thrown back and red blush spreading down his chest. Theon is very, very fond of that blush.

Robb tugs at his hair, a warning, and then curses, loudly. He comes with bitten-off groan. Theon sucks him through it, then sits up. A trail of saliva dribbles down his chin, and he wipes at it with his thumb.

“Well,” he says.

Robb throws an arm over his eyes and groans again. Theon grins.

“Do you think, if I was really very thorough about it, you’d be hard again by the time I finish fucking you?”

Robb swears, arm coming off his face so he can peer up at Theon. “Probably,” he replies, voice rough.

He crawls up the bed to kiss Robb again, arms braced around his shoulders. Robb’s hands, warm and calloused, trace along Theon’s sides and back, over skin and scars alike. He shivers, cock hanging heavy between his legs. When they’re in bed, Robb always touches him like he’s precious but not breakable. Once, Theon had wondered if that touch was the difference between fucking and making love—he thinks he has an answer now.

“Is there—” he manages, before Robb nods and twists to reach off the bed. Theon trails sloppy kisses down his newly exposed side while Robb rummages around. He lets out a little _ha!_ of success, then twists back and surges up to kiss Theon, biting at his lips.

“You are so distracting,” Robb huffs, shoving the vial at Theon.

“I’m just supposed to ignore an opportunity like that?” Theon scoffs. “Not likely.”

“Ridiculous,” Robb mutters, then exhales loudly as Theon starts kissing across his stomach. He opens the vial, slicks up a few fingers, and starts slowly easing one into Robb.

As promised, Theon takes his time opening Robb up, slipping one, then two, then three fingers in and out of him while kissing the soft inside of his thigh, the crease of his groin, the stretch of skin below his navel. By the time Robb is keening, cock half-hard again, hips shifting back against his fingers, Theon is ready to start rutting into the mattress.

He pushes himself back up, slicking his cock and positioning the head at Robb’s entrance. Theon catches his eyes—bright and lidded, blown nearly all black—and asks “Ready?”

Robb’s response is to tangle his fingers with Theon’s messy ones and tug.

Theon pushes in, slowly, until he’s as far inside Robb as he can get. It feels—gods, it feels as good as it always does, warm and tight and blissful. Theon drops his head to Robb’s sternum, catching his breath.

“Theon,” Robb whines, grabbing for Theon’s shoulders and bucking his hips up. “ _Move_.”

Theon sucks in a deep breath. “Patience, my lord husband,” he says, but shifts to pull out of Robb. He sets a slow pace, a deliberate and thorough drag in and out, in and out, in and out. Robb hooks a leg around him and trails his fingers up and down Theon’s back. Theon bites a kiss into the join of his neck, leveraging one hand free to thumb along the crease of Robb’s groin, over and over.

He’d tried to delay it, but Theon had been so hard from blowing and opening Robb that he doesn’t last long. Before he knows it, his thrusts are short and shuddering, so he raises his hand to Robb’s cock and starts stroking. Robb moans, voice breaking, and Theon, overwhelmed by friction and feeling and love, comes, spilling inside Robb with a hand on his cock and lips on his neck.

Robb squirms beneath him, pushing up in Theon’s fist. “Theon, Theon, please,” he gasps, so Theon strokes him lazily, scaping his teeth gently along his jaw until Robb cries and shudders to a stop, spilling over Theon’s hand.

They lie there, panting, until Theon finds the motivation to roll off Robb. He grabs a conveniently placed cloth and wipes them both off before chucking it to the side and burying his face in the pillows. Robb pushes at his legs until Theon lets up enough for Robb to pull the furs over the both of them, then lies down himself. He turns onto his side, pushing his chest up against Robb’s back and slipping an arm over his waist. Robb puts a hand over his and laces their fingers together; Theon pushes one last, soft kiss to the nape of Robb’s neck and drifts off to sleep.

*

When Theon wakes, it is to the spill of weak sunlight across his face and an arm over his stomach.

The arm is Robb’s, he realizes after a few heartbeats, fingers still twined together from when they fell asleep. In the night, Robb has managed to sprawl across as much of the bed and Theon as he can reach. Theon’s feet are tangled with one of Robb’s, his free arm trapped under Robb’s head, but it’s warm and comfortable and Theon’s content.

He worms his way closer, curls their tethered forearms around Robb’s waist, and presses his nose into the warm skin of Robb’s neck. Even if the only benefit of being married was getting to wake up like this, Theon would still have readily agreed.

“’S cold,” Robb murmurs, tightening his grip on Theon’s hand as he wakes up. “You’re cold.”

“Then warm me up,” he says, pressing as much of his face into Robb’s neck as he can.

Robb bats a lazy hand at him, pawing at his head. “You’re a Stark now, got to keep yourself warm.”

“Nuh-uh,” Theon says, smiling at the thrill _you’re a Stark now_ sends through him. “That’s what you’re for.”

“Oh, is it?” Robb rolls over on top of him to crowd Theon down into the pillows, pressing lazy kisses to his face. “That why you married me?”

“Only for your body heat,” Theon says as seriously as he can manage. Robb huffs and grinds his hips down until Theon squirms. “Maybe other parts too,” he admits.

Robb laughs and rolls off him. Theon grabs for the blankets and furs to stop the warmth from seeping out, idly watching Robb’s back as he stands and stretches. Robb scratches at his neck, then makes his way toward what Theon assumes is a pitcher of water until—

“Ah!” Robb hisses, hopping a little. Theon peers over the side of the bed toward his feet.

“Did you just trip on my wedding present?” Theon asks, shaking his head and grinning. “Shame on you, leaving our priceless family heirloom on the floor.”

“You’re the one who undressed me.” Robb rolls his eyes and picks the sword up. Theon waves a lazy hand at him, rolling over into the mattress.

There’s a silence, and when Theon looks, frowning, over his shoulder, Robb is looking at the hilt of the sword. “Did you break it already?” Theon asks.

“No.” Robb sits on the side of the bed, bumping against Theon’s hip. “I—What’s _Nagga’s Eye_?” He looks sheepish. “Sorry I don’t know, or if you told me and I forgot, but I feel like I probably should know, now."

 “It’s a star,” Theon says, blinking up at the ceiling.

“Oh,” Robb says. “Which one?”

Theon takes a second to remember. He had checked the legend when choosing the name, just to be sure he wasn’t unintentionally asking for something bad to happen. He looks at Robb and clears his throat.

“Nagga was a sea dragon,” he starts. “First one, actually. Really, really big. The Grey King—a champion of the Drowned God and the first King of the Iron Islands—slew her and fashioned her bones into his hall and her fire into his hearth.” Theon had been there, once. The rocks had looked too much like bones—or maybe the bones too much like rocks—for him to decide whether or not it was truth. “It’s where we hold Kingsmoots, now.”

Robb’s gaze is intent on him, and Theon swallows. “One of the sailor’s constellations, it’s—we call it Nagga. The Ice Dragon, I think, is what mainlanders call it. Nagga’s eye is the brightest star—the one that points north.” He shrugs, looking away from Robb’s bright eyes. “I thought it appropriate.”

There’s a shift on the mattress, and then Robb is leaning over him, arms framing his head. He’s looking at him with a warmth and a seriousness that makes Theon want to cover his face and say something stupid.

“I love you,” Robb says, and he’s heard it before but—

It still feels, every time, as if he has swallowed a lung full of seawater. It hurts, in a burning, beautiful, wondrous kind of way.

“I love you too,” Theon says, heart in his throat and the hands of the man above him.

**Author's Note:**

> In ASOS, Davos mentions one of the “smuggler’s constellations” being called the Ice Dragon (“The clouds hid most of the Ice Dragon, all but the bright blue eye that marked due north”), but the ironborn were sailing way the fuck before the Targaryen Conquest, so I figured they probably had some other name for it. And since there was this handy legendary sea dragon I just kind of threw my hands up and went “that’s perfect I guess.” Because, y'know… it let me have Theon name the sword after an ironborn constellation that always points north. And uh. I’m a sappy symbolic bitch like that. 
> 
> House Flint is located on Cape Kraken, which is the north border of Ironman’s Bay. The Ironborn and the North fight over it a lot, and of course GRRM made it so that Theon Stark was the first king to drive the ironborn out and then later (after a Greyjoy took it back) the kids of Rodrik Stark fought for it again. I don’t know what Balon was doing, naming two of his kids after Starks that took stuff from ironborn, but uh. Sure makes for some fun family history lessons, I bet.
> 
> The sword exchanging thing is cribbed from historical records of Viking weddings, which I figured was fair since the ironborn are loosely based on the Vikings and if GRRM wanted something else then he should have given us an ironborn wedding already, goddamn it. Then I threw in some drowned god blessings because they go on about that guy enough I figured they’d do it in a wedding too. Also, I tried to make the ironborn stuff kind of the opposite of weddings in the faith of the seven; less the expected “I will love you and be faithful forever” stuff and more “I will help you kill your enemies.” Of course, the North basically just goes for wham bam and thank you ma’am when it comes to weddings, but at least you get to show off all your titles and sound real impressive.
> 
> Bran’s asking all the old gods questions because he’s the acting head of the family when Robb’s indisposed and I think getting married counts.
> 
> Sansa spent all that time remaking the Stark marriage cloak and then they just fucked by it! How rude!
> 
> Gendry’s in Winterfell because Arya’s there and he literally needs no other reason and neither do I.
> 
>  
> 
> I yell about Game of Thrones and other things over [here](https://glass-es-say.tumblr.com/), if you want to yell with me.


End file.
